Good Days
by cyrilandshirley
Summary: Brendan being happy with Ste. Basically Dublin and just after. Will just have 2 parts I think.
1. Chapter 1

_This is just me writing happy Brendan, cos I wanted to give it a go. Basically, Dublin and after. It'll just have a couple of parts. I got a bit stuck, then got inspired by this lovely John Martyn song, which is about changing and growing up and realising the person you love now is the one you love the most, and finding your place in life._ watch?v=R3wI-_PTN1Q

So this wasn't supposed to happen.

"I'll run yer a bath," you say to me.

"No. I don't need a bath," I say. I don't know what I need. I'm at a loss. Only you. That's all. Just you.

"Brendan," you say, and I stop fighting, just the way you say it. "I'm running yer a bath. So just … let me, alright? Let me do it."

"OK," I say, knowing resistance is futile when you have that look on your face. "OK." I don't feel OK. Nothing can make this OK. But I don't mind letting you try, if it makes you happy. And it does.

So yeah, this wasn't supposed to happen. Not just the bath. Any of it.

You weren't supposed to turn up at the door of that cut price hotel room, and come barging in, all "Surprise!", as if I'd entered some parallel universe where I hadn't done every fucking thing in my power to keep you away. As if I were in some universe where I hadn't had to hold my tongue while you married some other guy, who could love you better than I could. Not more, no one loves you more than me. But better, yeah. Or so I thought. A universe where I hadn't had to stand on the sidelines and watch that other guy cry his eyes out over you, while you nearly died on me. Where I hadn't wrapped my cross around your hand and promised a god who seemed to have hated my guts from the day I was born that I would stay away if he'd only give you a pass this time. Where I hadn't had to watch from a distance, as you got back on your feet, resurrected. And where I hadn't kept that distance, even though every time I saw you looking at me, there was something reaching straight from your eyes down into my soul, a question I didn't want to hear. Where you hadn't come to the club anyway and begged me to ask you to stay, and kissed me, the way that you do, laying it all out on the line for me, nothing held back, like a gift, and told me it could all be OK when I knew it couldn't, because if God got to hear about it, there'd be trouble. Where I hadn't punched you, knocked you to the floor, watched the blood run from your nose as you looked up at me, dazed and hurt, and I dug my fingers into my palms to stop me reaching a hand out to help you, and never letting go again. And then going home, packing a bag, and leaving. Where the last thing I'd seen before that taxi wasn't you, kissing that other fella like your life depended on it. At least someone got a happy ending.

So what the fuck went wrong? I went to Dublin to be miserable, and screwed up, and alone. Actually, I went to try to make it up to my family, but that amounts to pretty much the same thing, specially as Padraig was the only one to even give me a smile, and he's still of an age to love pretty much anyone. So that didn't work out. So I picked up a guy. There's always a guy. I don't even remember a damn thing about this one. The only thing that was memorable about him was that he seemed about as fucking miserable as I was. And the only other thing that was memorable about him was that he was in my bed when you turned up.

"I told you to stay away", I said to you, not understanding what this was, how you could be there, after everything. I know it was lame. I hardly even knew why I was running after you, except I couldn't let that lift door close and take you away.

"You're an animal", you said to me, spinning, round, hating me, the way I guess I meant you to. Yeah, I'm filthy. I know it. This is what I do. I hate myself plenty enough for two, if it's any consolation.

But really, what gave you the right to judge?

"And you're a hypocrite," I told you, "you're a married man_._" Because this wasn't supposed to happen. It was supposed to be over, finished, dead.

"Yeah, well I left him to come and be with you, right?" What? Why? You're so angry, you're crying. I didn't know this would make you so angry. "Have nice life, Brendan."

Fat chance of that. Because this time the door closes on your face. Just too late for me to realize that I can't stop seeing it. Your face is what I still see every time I close my eyes. You make me feel like a pig, a total bastard. But I still can't stop myself running after you, down the stairs, my chest banging. And I just made it, catching you as you charged towards the door.

"What do you want from me, huh?"I could hardly believe I was there, in a hotel lobby, shouting the odds for anyone to see. But I was. This is what you'd brought me to.

"Dun't matter," you said, though it did to you, plain as day, your voice thick. "You've obviously moved on."

"Yeah, I thought you were doing the same."

"He the reason why you wanted me to stay away?" Your finger was jabbing towards upstairs. The guy, the nobody.

"No –"

"Just tell the truth!"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to waste your journey coming over here, I am."And I was. I was sorry. For all of it. You have no idea how much.

"Why can't we just be together?"A plea, in your voice. Now there was a question. You made it sound so simple. And you were still asking it, in spite of the guy upstairs, because you knew he was nobody really. Nobody is anything compared to you. But the Big Man was watching. And judging. And finding me wanting, every time. And I'd made a promise. So I destroyed it. Everything that was in your eyes, your face.

"How did you think this was gonna end, Steven? That we were gonna hold hands and skip over the Liffey Bridge? That we were gonna throw a coin in the water, make a wish together? Is that what was goin' on in your mind, was it? Some people don't deserve a happy ending," I told you, hating myself, hating him upstairs, hating you, hating the world, and hating the god who always seemed so fucking angry with me. He had to be, or he'd not have put me through that all over again, shown me the thing I couldn't have. Because all I could really think was how fucking good you looked, always a bit taller than I remembered, with your eyes blazing furious and your mouth determined, even when you were letting me make you cry. And I hate it when you cry.

But you really don't give up easy, do you? You stepped right up.

"You're scared, aren't yer? Yeah, you are, cos you know it might actually happen now, cos there's nothing to stop us being together now, and that's what scares yer." You were nodding, right up in my face, talking through the tears, and everything I'd ever dished out to you over two fucking years.

"I'm not scared."

But I was. So I tried again. Set my jaw.

"I think you should go get a flight back to the States and see if you can patch it up with that little guy of yours. I hear Disneyland's lovely this time of year, all lit up. Maybe you and him could go see Mickey together. Huh?"

I could hear the contempt in my voice. That usually works. It always worked on me.

"You want me to go back to Doug? Is that what you really want?" Still there. Still offering yourself to me.

Last chance, Brendan. Last call on what you really wanted, the person that was right in front of you.

"I'll tell you what I really want. What I want is to pick up a bloke that isn't you. Like I did today. Like I'm gonna do tomorrow. And the day after that and the day after that, until you get the message."

I watched that slice through you. Watched you let it sink in, that this was not happening. Watched tears run down your face, disappointment, humiliation, frustration. But even though you were crying, when you realized this was over, you still held it together, your chin stuck out, held high, proud as fuck.

"Fine. Fine. Well, I'm gonna go now. To America. And you'll never have to see me ever again."

And you went. And it's strange, because it was what I meant to happen, you turning and leaving, hating me, but it was like having something ripped away, like having my own arm cut off, or my heart ripped out while I was still breathing. Even though I'd done it myself. A necessary surgery.

I don't know why I thought I had to be miserable and alone, like it was my destiny or something. Partly because I was so sure I was toxic. And partly, maybe, because I was just so damn good at it. But somehow, I just lost the talent for it. I tried. I got rid of the nobody and sat there swigging whiskey like an anaesthetic and telling myself if I could just get past this, I could go back to how I was before. Without love. And it was better this way. But it just … hurt. Really fucking badly. There wasn't enough whiskey in the world to numb that hurt. And then when I went out to find another bottle to try, someone I never even met before told me it wasn't a sin to be happy. Just like that. That being miserable and alone was no way to serve anybody. And that maybe the only promise that matters is the one you make to keep trying. And it was like a door opening, that you've been beating your head against for as long as you can remember, and falling through. Like being set free. I guess I just reached my limit of pain. Or you could call it a miracle.

As soon as I saw you on that bridge I knew that this was it. You were furious, and hurt, and that was my fault, spitting feathers, turning your back on me, your collar pulled up, defensive, but I knew you wouldn't have come if this wasn't what you really wanted. And I knew if I'd lost you for once and all, you wouldn't still be there, standing on a bridge in the middle of my city, like you were still waiting for something. As long as you were still here, now, there was always still a chance. And I take my chances. Strange feeling, standing there and watching you on that bridge in the dark, looking around you, then seeing me, and knowing this was it, the thing I'd fought for two years. Something I didn't want to fight anymore. Something I'd never honestly had, and didn't really understand. Someone who belonged to me, in a way I can't even explain. Someone I loved. Someone who loved me back the same way. Not sensible. Not reasonable. But because it can't be any other way.

You were pissy, obviously. About the fella, the nobody. About what I'd said.

"Don't flatter yerself," you said when I teased you about wanting to lock your heart to someone else's, the way lovers all around you were locking theirs together. So I tried to explain.

"Didn't think I was gonna see you again."

"Thought that was what you wanted." I could hear you were still crying, though your face was turned away.

"It's not." So that was a start, right? First truthful thing I'd said to you for a long time. It wasn't enough, obviously.

"Right, so what do you want?" you asked me, turning round. And when I had no words, you seemed like you'd had enough. "In fact, forget it. I'm not going through this again. I'm not having you mess me around anymore, right? I have given up everything for you. Right, I've let me kids down. I'm supposed to be with them now, starting a new life in America, with a guy that actually loves me. But instead, I come over 'ere for you, and find you in bed with another man."

Christ, you'd been sharing your bed with another man for months, and it had killed me.

"I never said I was a monk, Steven."

"'I never said I was' … who do you think you ARE? Eh? Is that the best you can come up with? I can't believe I thought you'd changed. You know, I thought I would get over 'ere, and things would be different this time. But it's not, is it? You are never gonna change. So goodbye, Brendan."

Your pride had taken a kick up the backside. But I love you when you're proud, and take no shit. So I stopped handing it out.

"I didn't think you were gonna make it." You stopped, on the far side of the bridge. Let me close the distance that you'd opened up between us. "After the accident. Thought you were gonna die. I promised God that if you pulled through, I'd stay away."

So yeah, saying that, out loud, I knew it sounded insane. But it meant everything to me, in the moment when I made it. It was binding. You seemed to go with the insane explanation. You looked incredulous.

"Did yer think God was just gonna strike yer down wi' lightning? God, what century do yer live in? Right, yer not normal!"

No, I'm not. I never have been. But I'd have done anything to protect you. I hope you never have to understand what that feels like, to watch someone you love taken away.

"I couldn't have lost ye, Steven. Even if that meant never seein' ye again … I couldn't have lost ye."

And I could feel you coming back, even though you're still angry, and confused.

"So why didn't you tell me then?"

Why? What kind of question is that? Because if I'd told you, I'd never have kept you away as long as I did.

"I just wanted the best for ye. Always have."

You look tired, now. You shake your head, like you can't really take any of this in.

"Why are you 'ere?"

So I decide it's time. It's time to move it up. Turn the wheel, change where I was headed. Where both of us were headed. And get it right, this time.

"Cos I love ye. Cos I can't live my life without ye. I love you, Steven."

And it's like finally dropping my guard. I have no defences, right now. There is it, for you to do what you want with it. I've played my last card, and everything is on the table in front of you.

It's hard to describe the expression on your face right then, but it's like every part of you hurts, but is also coming alive. I think that's a good sign, because that's pretty much how I'm feeling right now.

"I love you, too," you say, and I guess I already knew, but it was good to hear, specially as you'd done such a good job of pretending to be in love with someone else. But there was no one else. You didn't move though. You looked like you didn't think you could. So I decided it was time we sealed this deal, the way we always do. I took a step in your direction.

"I'm gonna kiss ye now," I said. "Cm'ere."

You walked over, put your bag down without taking your eyes off my face.

I put a hand on your neck and pulled you close.

And then I think it was you and me on a bridge, and I'm kissing you, and your mouth is warm, and your hands are in my hair, and my hands slide down to hold your hips, and I know you're mine, in a way nobody's ever been mine. To take care of, and to enjoy, and just to be with. I felt like I would have given you anything right then, anything at all, the whole world if I had it. So I guess that's what love feels like, when you finally reach out and take it. And I still don't know if I can be the man you want me to be, but I know I want to, and I don't want to die without finding out. And all I can remember after that really is the look on your face when I pulled out of that kiss, your smile, just massive, and knowing my face looks the same. I hardly even know this feeling.

"C'mon then," I said, and grabbed a bag. And then we were almost running off that bridge so fast you could hardly keep up, but I think you slipped your arm through mine and I didn't care. Loved it, really. Loved that it was dark, just street lights, and I was in Dublin, my city, the darkness and Dublin wrapped around, and you were there, and I was taking you back to that room where I meant to be miserable like an idiot, and instead, I was going to make love to you til we both forgot our own names.

I remember you laughing as we almost fell into the room, hearing the door slam behind. And then you stopped, and I threw your bag down, and you dropped yours and turned to look at me. And then your mouth is right there again, and my hands are on every part of you, and yours are on every part of me, pulling at clothes and uncovering, and Jesus, I never forgot for one second how fucking gorgeous you were, how fearless and insatiable and yet weirdly vulnerable you are when you strip off your clothes, like you really have no idea how desirable you are, and you still think I might kick you out at any moment. No chance of that now. No chance of that ever. Not once I saw you on that bridge. From that moment, to kissing you, to taking you back, to undressing you, to the bed, to letting my fingers run over your body, feeling heat burn from your skin, and your cock harden, to letting my mouth do some talking, in several different ways, tasting you, musky and sweet and salty and sharp, to hearing you say my name, and lifting up your knees high to let me in, your legs wrapped round my back, and my hands cradling your head, and my mouth on yours, my tongue finding yours as for a while we just remember how this goes, and how we fit, and you breathe and smile and suck, eyes wide, and then I move, and you moan and clutch and writhe, and I never forgot for one second how much I wanted you, but it's not the same as having you, like you share every part of you with me, and it blows me away. And from there a way down the line, moving together, intimate, abandoned in a way I've never known with anyone else, a crazy sort of ultimate pleasure that I can't even begin to explain, to catching my breath as I watch you cum, your eyes narrowed and your mouth open, so close to mine, feeling you spill over my belly, to losing myself inside you, feeling your hands on my back, my backside, your breath hot on my shoulder, lips sucking, teeth scraping flesh … all of that, a straight line. Or an arc, like the arc your spine makes off the bed, and mine makes as I bury myself in your body. No interruptions, or deviations, or diversions. No one stops us. Nothing gets in the way, and nothing will again. We are where we needed to get to, from the place where we started. Fucking under the sign of a cross.

"I told yer," you say, soft, breathless, flushed, as I look into your face, coming down, my nose running down the side of yours. "No one struck yer down, did they?"

But you're smiling, wider, all teeth, and I laugh, and bury my face in the side of your cheek, and feel you hold me close, as if someone might take it all away after all.

It's a long night. We have a lot of catching up to do. Some things get said, but not as much as you might think. I already know a lot of what's in your head, what you're feeling, why you stayed away, why you're here now. And it seems like you know more of what's in mine than I ever gave you credit for.

"Steven, I know that …" I start, in one moment, running a thumb down your cheek as your head rests on my chest, but you look up and put a finger right on my mouth.

"Hey, none of that tonight," you say, like someone made you the boss. "Anyway," you say, "you talk too much. Something needs to shut yer up." You're grinning. And then you're kissing me, and I can still hear you laughing, feel you shaking while I kiss you, and it's infectious, til I roll you onto your back and make you pay for it, trailing slowly down every inch of your body with my tongue, every nub and plane and indentation and follicle, every mark on your skin that I've seen in my head, over and over, and in my dreams, the two moles just under your right nipple, the wingspan tattoo on your hipbone, until I give you what you want. So I never get to tell you that I should have come to the hospital when you needed me. That I never should have pushed you away. That nothing that hurt you that much could ever have been right, no matter how much I thought it was. I let my mouth talk to you another way instead, sucking and teasing and making love to you until I feel you shudder, and I swallow you down, and afterwards you're laughing again. In fact I think the last thing I hear that night is you laughing, softly, and saying you're gonna keep me awake all night.

"Oh, yeah?" I say, into your shoulder, as my arm loops your waist, muscular and narrow, but not as skinny as you were. Solid. Real. Strong. "I'm gonna need to work on my stamina."

"Well, you might not be here in the morning, might yer," you say. But I can hear the smile in your voice. Your head turns towards me. "And there's nothing wrong with your stamina," you say, that laugh there again. I kiss you, because there's no answer to that. Your own staying power is pretty impressive. You wouldn't be here if it wasn't, opening your mouth up to mine again. You look at me from under your lashes as the kiss ends. You look satisfied. Your arm rests on mine where it snakes across you.

"I'll be here," I say, into that round shoulder beside me. Because where else would I go? I already found out there is nowhere else without you in it.

"That's good," I hear you slur, your body relaxing, heavy, your face turning away on the pillow. "Cos I've not finished with you, yet."

And then I guess we're both gone. Because the next thing I knew it was morning, and we were both still there. That's the moment when I realized that this was serious. That this wasn't just one night. That this was something I had to make work in daylight, where there was no running and hiding. And not just today, but the day after that, and on, and on. The start of something I had no map for. Me and you. Because that was what it was, now, me and you. Not just me anymore. And I'd spent my whole life alone.

I sat up and watched you sleeping for a while. We'd not spent more than a few nights together, but you always did sleep better than me, like you'd made peace with any troubles you'd had in your past. Now, you're sort of sprawled on your back, an arm across your middle, your face turned away, your mouth slightly open. There's a light from between the curtains falling across your face. You're no angel, god knows, but you look like something that landed from heaven, right in my bed. You've always been like this. Light, easy. You have a sort of glow. Like in spite of everything life's chucked at you, including me, you have developed a talent for happiness. For a long time, I thought I was your worst nightmare, the one who would blot all that out if I tried to be with you. But looking at you now, I get something for the first time that I just couldn't see before. I don't really understand it. But I'm the one who makes you shine.

And it was more than sex. Keeping you didn't just mean making you cum three or four times a day, though that might have kept you happy for a day or so. This next bit, I knew what this meant. It meant letting you in. Showing you who and what I was. And I needed to be ready for that. If I'm honest, I needed some time to clear my head, walk those streets and bridges that are like the lines on my palm, think, be just me for a few minutes longer. So I got up and left you there. I don't mind saying I wasn't sure how to start. But in the end, all I had to do was think about what you might want, or need, and then it was easy. Breakfast. You'd wake up hungry, in more ways than one, and if I got food in, we could eat in bed, and we'd not have to leave that room until the devil himself came knocking. So I was always coming back to you, always. But from the look on your face when I walked in with coffee and a bunch of toast, you didn't have the same confidence in me. I decided to change that.

"Am I dreaming?" you asked me.

"You never had breakfast in bed?"

"I'm not on about the breakfast," you said, your voice soft and intimate. Like you could hardly believe it, really. That we were both still there. That no one was running away. That you were brushing toast crumbs out of my moustache, and I was offering you the whole city, to do whatever pleasure you wanted.

Maybe you started to believe in it when I told you we'd be going back together in a few hours. Given the choice, I'd have stayed there with you forever, started from scratch, a new life, but we both come with some baggage. Your kids needed you, and mine didn't, so I knew we were always going back together. Your face lit up when I told you. You looked … ripe for this, whatever we were starting. But even then, you wanted more than seduction. You let me, yeah, your eyes hooded and your lips opening and your body coming up to meet mine while I straddled you and pinned you to the bed. But you never were happy with just my cock and balls, were you? You had to have my heart and soul. And Guinness, apparently.

"Guinness?"

"Yeah."

"What, right now?"

" … Maybe not right now, no."

So first there was the bed, and the shower, taking my fill of your bedwarm body, your mouth, and then watching the water run down over your brows, your lips, your round sloping shoulders, trickling across your chest and back, into your groin, your backside, and down through the hairs on your legs, while you flicked water, and laughed, and I took hold of your hands and pinned them to the tiles, making you squeal and moan.

"That's cold, that!"

I guess this was fooling around. I'd never really had that before. Never had anyone I wanted to fool around with, where it was more than business. And after, I showed them to you, my heart and soul. Took you out into this city that's part of me. Watching you sitting there, trying your first sip of the black stuff, screwing your English nose up at it, I felt pride. Of the place. Of you. Of you, in that place. With me. Something new. But there was more, and the clock was ticking. And we'd already wasted a world of time I didn't even have.

I took you out to the docks. I wanted you to see what I was before I was … this. So we walked down to the lighthouse at what feels like the edge of the world, and there was only you and me, and the sea talking to itself, and I felt something lifting off me. Strange, light feeling. I thought I'd feel responsible for you, having you beside me, and I do, but it's like it weighs nothing. Specially when you're smiling, laughing, talking all the time, mucking about. You try pushing me off the pier, and grabbing me back, and you laugh like a seal, and I take the piss, and you don't care, you just laugh louder. I can't even remember when I ever had this, the last time. A bond with someone that didn't hurt. When I was a kid, probably, running with the boys. So I sit down at the end of the world with you, just you and me, and I tell you about them. Think about them as well, Pete, Mal. Wasting the days away, doing nothing, waiting to be free without ever knowing that that's about as free as you ever get. Went sour with both of those in the end. Not much survived my childhood. I don't know if I did, really. But you're sitting beside me now, listening. This will, I think. This will. Even if you want to know why I still can't hold your hand. Why there's always something holding me back, even now I know that I love you. Why every step of this is painful for me. And I can't tell you.

"Well, what's stoppin' yer, then?" you ask me.

So I decide to show you that as well.

I took you somewhere where the doors closed on my life. My Dad's pub. Seamus's. Boarded up, abandoned. Took you right inside, in a rotten fire door round the back and down into the bar. The place reeked of stale air, ancient fags, old beer gone sour. Death. You didn't even want to be there. You stayed close, and then asked to leave, polite, like a kid. "Can we go now, please?" I guess this hadn't been on your idea of a honeymoon tour. I don't know why I took you there, really. So you could stand beside me and I could try to make you understand what happened here. But the moment we got in there, I felt it wrap around me, like a hand over my mouth. The darkness. When it comes, there's no point in struggling, though part of me does, every time. And it's all there, waiting for me. I can feel everything, the fear, that prickles my neck and clenches my stomach. I can hear everything, the chanting. And I can taste everything. The vomit, in my mouth. I try to tell you, in words, why I would never be worthy. Why I'd always be punished. Why for some of us, there's no way out.

And then there's you. Your voice breaks in.

"Doesn't matter any more though, does it? Right, all that's left of the past now is just … dust. Look." And you brush it off the table with your hands, raising a cloud around you. Then you brush your hands clean. "Yeah? It just breaks away. Can't hurt you any more. Watch."

And before you even stop to think, you grab a grimy glass and chuck it full force at the mirror on the wall. The reflection of the pub smashes into a million pieces and falls to the floor, while you wince and look at me, like you can't totally believe you just did that, but at the same time, it's the most fun you've had in a million years. I can almost hear your pulse banging from here, the adrenalin.

"See?" you say.

And it just stops. All of it. We're in a shitty old pub that should have been bulldozed ten year ago. It's the past. It's nothing. But you're not. You're everything. You're here, now, real, outlined by the light that's coming through the shutters from outside. The only bit of light in the whole damn place. You're the only one I've ever known who understands how this works. And you're the only one I've ever known who knows the way out.

I pick up a stool, and walk towards you. You're smiling, almost holding your breath, like you're daring me. And then I lift it above my head, and bring it down on a glass on the table. They both shatter. I lift it again, and it hits the wall, what's left of the mirror, and falls to the ground. For the next minute, we grab everything we can, and throw it, turn it over, break it into pieces. No one is putting this place back together. Dust rises and dances in the air, and I can hear you breathing, and laughing, like last night, and then I turn towards you and I just want you more than anything. Just you. I think you're still smiling as I kiss you, and I don't ever want to stop, you're warm, and you're real, you match me kiss for kiss, heart for heart, and hand for hand. You make me want to stay alive forever, like Superman, like I haven't wanted to since I was a kid. And it's like you know exactly how I feel, and what I want, and while I'm pushing your jacket off, you're pushing off my coat, and we stagger towards the bar where I lift you and feel your legs wrapped round my hips, your hands in my hair, and we're groping for each other's belts, because this needs to be now, and fast. I love that you don't care that I'm rough, that you like it, that you know I'll never hurt you, that you give me permission to take what I need from you. That we're grabbing at each other and kissing as we slide onto the floor. That you're pulling at my clothes, because you want this as much as I do. That your cock pressed against your belly tells me much the same thing. And the way you moan and cry out and then say my name – Bren – as I push inside you, hard and deep and fast.

It's pretty frenzied, and I guess it doesn't look pretty, all flushed faces and sweat and rutting bodies, but all the time your mouth and your body tells me this is fine. This is more than fine. I have never felt more of a man than I am when I'm with you. You come first, squeezing and clinging and whimpering, and while your lips are still open, your pupils still dilated, I let it all go into you. Someone cries out. Maybe both of us. Then I'm focusing on your face again, underneath me. Your breath comes and goes, and your eyes kind of shine. I bury my face in your neck. And the main thing I remember is, in spite of the dust that lay thick over everything, the filth of that place, that you smelt clean. This, you and me, it felt clean.

Finally pulling apart, chests still heaving, we sat up, fastening clothes back up with slow satisfied hands. Coming to rest your back against the bar, you laughed, out of breath, pulling down the T shirt and sweater that I'd pushed right up your chest to your armpits to get close to your flesh, touch your skin, kiss it, lick it, feeling it vibrate and shiver under my touch, sensitive, alive. I watched you look round that place, unimpressed, like it was nothing, like you had defeated it. And for the first time, I thought maybe I had as well. Because this, here, choosing to be with you, someone I loved, someone who loved me back as much as you do, I realized that that was the meaning of freedom. I could walk out of there with you, leave it all behind, and no matter where we went together in this world, I was free of it.

"Hey," I said to you. "Time to go home." And you just nodded, quiet.

You took the hand I stretched out to you and levered yourself up against my weight. Brushed the dust off your backside, your elbows, your knees. Nothing sticks to you. We walked out of there together. And I felt clean for the first time in as long as I can remember.

You know I don't believe in happy endings, right? But I thought maybe we'd have some time. Just to play with this thing. To live it, you know? Work it out. Your kids, your work, my life, fit it all together somehow, like bits of a puzzle. Always knowing you were there, about to turn up, knowing where you were when I needed you. Wanted you. And I did want you. Pretty much all the damn time. Like knowing the sun's gonna rise every day, knowing you'd be at the flat, the club, your place, giving me your ceaseless backchat and your come ons. And knowing that I'd let you. Because there's no one else's face I'd rather see. No one else's mouth I'd rather taste. And no one else's body I'd rather have next to mine, be inside of, snatching back everything we missed, because I just didn't know how until I knew I had to.

But we didn't get much time.

Just when I thought I was free, with you. He came to take me back.


	2. Chapter 2

****_Hi again. This was so hard for me to finish for some reason, but I hate leaving things unfinished! So here we go. I got a bit carried away and my second part ended up as parts 2 and 3, but I'm posting them both now (3 will be up in a minute). I just wanted to say again though, a massive thank you to anyone who's ever taken the time to leave me a review. I have appreciated every single one, more than I can say, really. THANK YOU._

**Part 2**

"You left me," I say, close into your face. "You left me."

I push past you, turn away, let my arms on your crappy cooker take my weight, heavy. They shake, my fists are balled, and I know I'm about to rip it out of the wall and bring this whole thing crashing down. I'm losing it. I'm going to lose it. I'm going to lose it all.

* * *

I can't tell you. I can't tell you how I felt when I opened the door and instead of you, he's there.

My Dad.

I didn't think I'd need to tell you, now we were back here. Why would I? I left all that behind in the dust on the floor where we fucked. It was you and me now. But he stops all that. There he is, standing between me and what I want.

And everything is dirty again, right there. The flat. The village. My life. Every single thing is about to turn back to shite, like fucking Cinderella or something.

I had to stand there, feeling my body disintegrate and reassemble, cell by cell, into the man he'd made me. The body I thought I'd taken back. I had to sit and watch, muscles rigid, mouth dumb, as Cheryl fussed over him, Daddy's little girl, getting him drinks, cooking up whatever he'd set his heart on having. What he wants, he gets. She didn't even look like her, either. She looked like someone I'd thought grew up a long time ago. Maybe he'll never let her be, either. I tried to sleep, that night, to get away from it. But every time there was a sound, I opened my eyes, knowing he was still there, lying in another room, stinking in his bed, beer and fags, and my guts clenched. In the early hours, I gave up, tried to run from it, pounding round the village, sweating it out, hawking up spit onto the ground to clear my lungs. But he was there when I got back, and my clothes just felt rank. I tried to wash it away, standing under the shower, turning the water up so hot I could have passed out. But he was still there, on my shoulder. Looking. He can do that. Destroy, just by looking, and opening his mouth. He doesn't even need to use his fucking hands.

At breakfast, he sat there and spread jam on his toast. Thick. Seeded. The way I hate it. He wanted to know what I got up to in Dublin. Right in there, with the jokes about the girls. He made it sound disgusting. Always did. And I didn't want him anywhere near that. Dublin was yours and mine.

He told me I was in fine shape.

I felt sick. I couldn't even open my mouth.

I made an excuse, any fucking thing, and went out into the village to be miserable and alone again. Might as well get used to it. But there you were.

"Boo!" you said, with your seal laugh right in my ear, deafening, and your hands grabbing my shoulders, vaulting over the bench, coming to sit beside me, all smiles and "It's only me," and all about your kids and your business, and what did I want to do with you today, as if today was like yesterday. You were even sending pictures to my phone, like any two people would. You grabbed it out of my hands, like you had a right to it. And no matter how impossible the whole thing seemed now, I couldn't stop myself leaning over to look. It was one I took on your phone, that picture, when we got back to the village yesterday. You and me. You'd said you wanted to remember what it felt like, coming home together, so I snapped it and handed it back. You've got a hand on my shoulder, and a smile a mile wide. I'm unsmiling. But somehow I still look fucking happy.

But everything had changed. We couldn't be like yesterday, no matter how much I knew you liked this all in the open, in the light, how much it means to you that we're sitting here together like this, people passing by, knowing. What it meant to me. I snatched the phone back, gave Theresa the brush off, told you not to act the way you did. Even though in my head, a voice told me exactly what I was doing, pushing you away, the one good thing I had. The only thing I'd ever had that was mine, accepted me for what I was, without illusions. Because this is where we have a row, right? I throw a wobbly, you get angry, storm off, it all goes to shit. No? You were puzzled, sure. But you just started looking for reasons. Joel, maybe. As if he would ever stop me doing what I wanted. Joel was nothing to you. Never had been.

And you deserved better than that. So I tried to be honest.

"He's here. He's here."

He'd come to take me back. I could feel the dust from that pub settling on my shoulders again. In my hair, on my hands, inside me.

But it wasn't for long. I told myself that, and you. I just needed this to stay quiet a little bit longer, so Cheryl never got to see what he was really like. I knew you'd hate the idea. Waltz off, probably, hurt, disappointed that I still can't do this. And that'd be that.

You still didn't go, though.

"You could just tell him the truth," you said, sitting beside me, listening, like you did on the pier yesterday.

But I just couldn't. Tell him that I was the pathetic little pansy he thought I was? No. I used that word. To you. That word, that's got nothing to do with you or me, and everything to do with him.

"So what, why do you care?" you asked me. "He is just some sad old bloke that used to beat you up. Right, what is he gonna do now? Eh?"

But still you didn't strop, or push, or leave, the way we would have done before. You touched my arm.

"D'yer know what, I know how tough it is, actually," you said. "So whatever you decide … whatever you decide, I'll stand by yer."

I looked at you. You were a constant surprise. Maybe I wasn't the only one who'd gone through some changes, here. Maybe this thing wasn't as breakable as I'd thought. Maybe no one could break it, now. As fast as that dust settled on me, dragging me back, you just blew it away with a smile, a touch. I didn't know I still had the power to smile.

He still had the power to make me run and hide, though, instinctive. I saw him, over your shoulder, sniffing round outside your shop. Was up off the seat before I even knew what the hell I was doing.

But it was ridiculous. You made me see that, without even having to say a word. I had to stop running.

"Look at me," I said to you, seeing the confusion in your face. "Just look at me, like some silly little schoolboy scared of the big bad wolf. What's he gonna do? Blow the house down?" You tried to stop me. "No, Steven, you're right. You're right. Why should I give a damn what he thinks?"

"Because this is a big deal, and you do not need to rush things for me." You were all concern, your brows pulled together in a frown that I wanna wipe away.

"I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it for us. I'm gonna tell him the truth. Right now. Well, not … right now."

And I stepped up to you. Because this is why I'm doing it. Because I hadn't fought that hard and waited that long to give up the right to stand here in the middle of the village and kiss you, because of what any other bastard in the world thinks of me. The right to see you break into a smile when you realise what's coming, knowing I'm smiling back at you, because being with you like this makes something in my blood sing. I swear I have smiled more since that bridge than I have in my whole fecking life. And god, you love me, don't you, opening your mouth and letting me push you up against a tree like a coupla kids snogging behind the bus stop. This is why I'm doing it. Because this is life. And I haven't kissed you since yesterday, when you told me you loved me in the flat. And that needs putting right, doesn't it, so I taste you, feel you sink into it, eyes closed, your hand in my hair. I used to think I was invincible, and I'm not. But I've never felt stronger than when I'm breathing you in, and your hands are on me.

"I'll come round, later," I say, when we pull out of the kiss, still smiling, out of breath, not really wanting to end it there, knowing from the way my groin brushed against yours that you're wishing we were back in that hotel room as much I am.

"Better had," you say, your voice soft and suggestive. Then serious. "But … text me, yeah? Let me know how you get on."

But that doesn't seem good enough. I'm gonna need to see you again, and soon, if I'm gonna get through this.

"Come and find us in the pub, later. We'll have a drink." I guess you could call it a celebration. I'll need it, that drink, I know that. Probably several.

You smile widens again. "All right, yeah." Then that awkward pause. I know neither of us wants to move. Jesus, what are we, thirteen?

"Good luck, then," you say. Then you kiss me, right on the mouth, light. "Love you."

I moan, internally. All I want is to take you home and screw. Fuck the world.

"Yeah, right back at ye," I say, my face still close to yours. "Now stop distracting me," I say.

Your eyes widen, your mouth opens. "I never!"

But I'm walking away, leaving you looking after me. And as I walk, I square my shoulders, though my stomach knots. I'll do it. I said I'd do it. No one's taking this from me.

And I tried, I did. But you don't know him. You have no idea, though I wish I could tell you. He destroys everything. I disgust him, shame him, just by breathing.

"Nothing you say will ever change the way I think about you," he said to me. But then, "Go on, spit it out … Brenda."

And it's in his face, his voice, and it infects me, sticks my tongue to the roof of my mouth, closes up my lips, stops my breath. He reduces me to nothing. Literally.

"Nothing." I say, eventually. I can taste the ashes of stale birthday cake in my mouth.

"Remember, you're a Brady. Everything you do, everything you are, reflects on me. You're not gonna bring shame on me, are ye?"

"No Dad. Course not Dad."

So I end up in the pub with him, and he still doesn't know. I'm back in that cage, chained and shackled, no way of escaping. I have to watch him leer over Jack's wife, call her sweetheart. She nearly blew the whole thing wide open, talking about you, so I had to give her the blarney, turn on the charm, while he got the drinks.

"Two pints of stout," he ordered. Turned to me. "Unless you'd like a pina colada?"

"Stout's good," I said. You don't get to choose, with my Dad. You get what you're given.

"Brenda, Brenda …" he said to me, with a sigh, waiting for his drink, his eyes contemptuous. His teeth bared in a smile that makes no one happy. "I've seen more convincing men on top of a wedding cake."

Because that's me, see? I can't be a man. Not while he's here. Not while he's breathing.

He went out to take a slash. I sat at the bar and kept my eyes down as he went. Watched my hand spinning a coin on the bar top. Heads or tails, Brendan? Heads or tails?

But you're there, again. Your presence drags me back. You come to sit beside me, careful. I guess you knew, from the lack of text, from the line of my back, the hunch of my shoulders, that it wasn't happening.

"So? How did it go then? Bren?"

And now he's back. You, and him, in the same space. I spin that coin again. Eyes down. And turns out he's already seen you. Coming out the flat, yesterday. Better and better. He offers to buy you a pint. Puts out his hand. His hand.

"I'm Seamus," he says.

"I'm … Ste," you say. And take it. You're shaking his hand. I can't breathe.

Then he calls you Steven.

"Well Steven, maybe you can help me solve a little mystery. My son here won't say which of the local broads he's had his wicked ways with." He leers, again.

Your face. I can hardly look at your face. There's just me, strapping that mask back on, trying to remember how to play this part, when I gave it up a long time ago. It revolts me now. And it revolts you too, I can see it. He calls me young, free, and single. Christ, I'm none of those things. I'm only free when I'm with you. He can't believe I haven't taken advantage.

"It's a crime," he says. "A crime."

And the coin shoots off the bar top and onto the floor. Jack's wife bends to pick it up, her skirt tight over her hips.

"Hey, Dad, if I was ten years older, eh?" I say.

I can't look at you, as the words drip out of my mouth, sour, the taste of denial. I sound like the worst actor in the world. I've forgotten these lines. But I can feel your misery. It hits me in the gut. You think I'm a coward. And nothing hurts more than that, and the pain of denying you. But even that's not enough for him.

"If you felt like scraping the barrel," he says, under his breath, through his nose, turning her to dirt as well. I forced my face into a smile. You didn't. You looked like you didn't want to breathe that air any more.

"What's up Steven?" he said. "Lost your sense of humour? Want her for yourself? Funny. Didn't think she'd be your type." Voice thick with meaning.

"I'm gonna get going, me, now," you say, getting up, sliding off your seat. Your voice is soft, but definite. You want out. I can hear you want out. And all I can think is, don't. Don't leave me here.

"What about your pint?" he says.

"I've had enough."

You leave almost without looking in my direction. Course. You've had enough. I've had enough. I had enough a long time ago. I've tried to end it. Couple of times. Nothing fucking works. It never ends.

"Sickening," he says, and I look at him, now. Because he's talking about you. "That jumped up scallywag is as bent as the Kenmare road."

And I have to laugh.

And I can't do this anymore.

There was a time I'd have gone to the club, got smashed, broken up the place until there was nothing left to break, and slept it off. Maybe I'd have gone off and found someone to screw. Or to fight. Or both, anything to get it out of my head. But there was only one place I needed to be this time, one face I needed to see. I went round to find you.

"You left me," I say, close into your face, as you open the door. "You left me." And I turn away, let my arms on your crappy cooker take my weight, heavy. They shake, my fists are balled, and I know I'm about to rip it out of the wall and bring this whole thing crashing down. I'm losing it. I'm going to lose it. You already sound scared of me again, creeping past quietly on the balls of your feet.

"Look, Brendan, I didn't mean to …"

So I let go, turn round, and thump my fist into the wall, right by your head, over and over. Someone is almost screaming. And you're in the way. You put yourself between me and it, and you look scared, but your voice is brave.

"Stop it! Stop it!"

"No! No! I can't change, Steven."

"You already 'ave changed!"

"I can't change."

"Not long ago, this would've been me, wouldn't it?" You bash the wall with your hand, your voice trying to reach me.

"Don't make excuses for me, don't make excuses for me! Just cos I didn't hit you this time, I could hit you next time, couldn't I? This is who I am!" The words are just falling out of my mouth, jumbled into each other.

"You are fighting it, Brendan!"

"No, I'm not!" My hands are pushing you away now, rough.

"You are beating it! Look at me!" I try to fight you off, but one hand is on my face, and the other grabs my wrist, tight. "Look at me! Look at me!"

I look. My eyes are blurred. But what I see, is you, hurting. This hurts you almost as much as it does me. Almost.

Both of your hands cradle my neck, hold me steady.

"I am not gonna give up on you, OK? I won't give up on yer."

Your voice shakes, but I've never heard you that sure. You pull me into you, a hand on the back of my neck, and another holding on to my shoulder.

And that's it. I collapse, into your shoulder. And I'm crying. I'm crying. Chest aching, dragging in air, sobbing it out a way I didn't even know I could. I have never done this. Never. Not since … not for a long time. And back then, there was no one to hold on to, the way I'm holding on to you now, gripping your waist, tight, as if I'll never let go, feeling your arms round my neck, your hand stroking the back of my head. I want to believe you can make this all alright. But the shooting pain in my busted hand reminds me that I carry something inside that I can't control. And I have tried so hard to control it all.

I can hardly support my own weight. I fall back onto that cooker, taking you with me. There is nothing between us. Just like there was nothing between us in that pub yesterday. I didn't think it was possible to feel closer to you than I did in that place. But right here, in your flat, I feel it again. That with you, I can just let it go.

I don't know how long it goes on. Til it's over, I guess. Eventually, it subsides. I feel useless. Numb. Heavy. But you're still here. Your face is concerned.

"I'm sorry," I say, voice thick, wiping my face with the heels of my hands. And I am. I hate that you had to see me like that.

"Don't be," you say. Your voice is soft, low. There's a pause, where all I can feel is your hand, still stroking my neck. Then your voice again. Still soft, but I can tell you're trying to break the mood. "Hey, it's only a few weeks since you found me trashing the deli, innit, like a proper mental. And you helped me."

It's almost impossible not to laugh. But at the same time, my chest hurts too much to get it out.

"Come here," you say, and take me by the arm over to the sink. You turn the tap on, push up my jacket sleeve, and put my hand underneath it. I don't even resist. It's cold. A shock. And you're getting something out of the freezer, ice cubes. You empty them into a plastic bag, press it into my hand.

"Hold onto that," you say, turning the tap off, closing one of your hands over mine for a second, before taking it away, but I don't know if it's because you think I don't want it, or you don't want to hurt me. But you're still standing beside me, close. I dare to glance at your face, your eyes hidden behind those mile-long lashes.

"I did nothing," I say, thinking about what you just said. The words sound slurred.

"You did everything," you say, looking up at me now. "No one else would've understood why I was on that floor, would they?"

I shake my head. Your mum. Your shitty parents. Mine. I know you're trying. We are both trying not to be those people. The bottle. The fist. Worse.

We stand there together for a minute or two. I know you're still looking at me. I sometimes wonder what the hell you see. Me, through your eyes. Why you want any of this.

"Listen, come with me, right," you say, suddenly, taking the ice away, and taking my arm instead.

"Where?" I don't want to move from this spot, where you held me, gave me something to hold onto.

"Just come 'ere," you say, insistent, leading me away. The bedroom. You're taking me to the bedroom.

"Steven … I don't …"

"No," you say, "not that. Just … to lie for a bit."

"I don't …"

"Brendan. Just ditch the jacket, yeah?"

And I hardly know what to do. I shed the jacket, and you take it out of my hands, dump it on a chair. I get onto the bed, awkward. You're drawing curtains, your back to me, shutting out what's left of the daylight, though there isn't much. I lie on my side, stiff. I have never been so fucking tired. But then you're climbing on as well, behind. For a second, I freeze. I don't know what this is, what's expected of me. But then I feel your arm go round me. Your chin against my back.

"We'll be all right, y'know," you say.

"Yeah," I say. I wish I believed it like you do. I want to.

"Course we will," you say.

I can feel your breath against the back of my neck. It's warm.

"Yeah," I say. And I really am so fucking tired, but all I want is to keep hearing your voice. Ironic, really. Because usually, nothing shuts you up, and it drives me mad. "Keep talking," I say. And I think I feel something like a laugh, in response.

"OK," you say, quiet. I like it when your voice is quiet. I don't mind when you shoot your mouth off, really, it's just who you are, full of fire, but I like it when you're just quiet, and thinking. You are smarter than you know. "Well … you can meet the kids properly, first. Cos I'll have to pick them up in a bit, actually." Like you've only just remembered. "And then it's Christmas, in't it, so we can have that together, you and me and the kids, if you like."

"I hate Christmas," I say, but I'm so goddamned tired I'm not sure if the words even make it out of my mouth. I don't, not really. I kind of like it, the lights, the bling. I always tried to make it good for my own kids, like the ones I remembered from when I was just a scrap of a lad. I thought I remembered a couple of good ones. Maybe I was kidding myself. I was a fail at it, anyway. Declan and Paddy were usually fighting before dinner was on the table, and I was down the pub. All that promise, gone sour.

"Not the way I do it, you won't," you say, like you're in your own world, and you can see it all, and it makes you happy, and you happy, against my back, makes my muscles relax. "I do the stockings for the kids, and all the sherry for Santa and carrots for Rudolf and all that. And then when I've got them into bed, it'll just be you and me …"


	3. Chapter 3

****_Last part! There's things I don't like about this, but ... here is is anyway._

**Part 3**

Next thing I know, you're standing beside the bed. Your hand is on my shoulder. I wake up with a jerk. For a second, I have no fucking clue where I am, nothing to anchor me except your hand.

"I've made you a cuppa tea, Brendan," you say. "You've been asleep." Your voice sounds more normal now, though there's trouble there, buried.

I swing my legs off the bed, trying to orient myself. Follow you out through into that crappy kitchen, where you hand me a mug. It's hot, and steaming.

"Go and sit down, then," you say. You're soft, but definite. A bit like you talk to a child. But it works. I sit there, on your crappy sofa that barely deserves the name, and as my body starts to wake properly, to remember, I feel the pain wash through my left hand again, burning, hot. I'm a fecking idiot. It hurts. But it had to. Sometimes, it's the only way to get the pain out. At least I didn't hurt you. The thought of it turns my stomach.

The tea's hot and strong in my mouth, as I take a sip. Plenty of sugar. You're good at this. Bringing me back to life. You put your own tea aside for a second, kneel in front of me, pick up my hand in both of yours, careful. It stops me.

"Have you broken anything?" you ask, looking up at me through those lashes, your brows pulled together.

I shake my head. I can still move it. That'll do. It's superficial, anyway. What's really broken is the stuff you can't see.

"Just my reputation as a hard man," I say. My voice still sounds thick. But there ye go. Humour. It's what I do. A defence. You don't laugh, though.

"You don't have to be like that, with me," you say. And you hold my gaze, even. No, there are no defences against you, are there? Never were.

But your phone goes off in your pocket, beeps, breaks the connection. An alarm. You rummage for it, and check the time. Look up, apologetic.

"I've got to get the kids," you say to me. I guess I must have been out for an hour.

"I'll go," I say, straight off, getting to my feet. Or trying to. Because you're on your feet, and your hand's on my shoulder. I can feel the pressure of your fingers.

"No," you say. "Stay here for a bit longer. Please."

"Steven … " I start, because you won't want me here when the kids get back. Why would you?

"I mean it, Brendan," you say. "I don't want you going back there like this. Stay with us tonight, yeah?"

Us. You and your family. Well that'd be a first.

"OK," I say, shrug, like this isn't the big deal that it might be. And you smile, your teeth showing.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," I say. But I'm getting up anyway, rubbing my stubble, awkward. "I have to go out … but I'll come back."

Immediately, you stop. "You will though?"

"Yes," I say, closing the distance. "I'll be back."

You look satisfied. "Good," you say, and hold your face up for a kiss. I give it you, obviously. I can't imagine a world where I hold back on you now. Where I would even want to. You pause, after, looking up into my face.

"OK," you say, looking for some confirmation that it's all right to leave me.

"OK," I say. "Go get your kids."

And you nod, and try to pull a smile, and withdraw. At the door, you throw me a look.

"Be back soon," you say, and I nod, to let you go. And you flash me this half smile, encouraging.

When the door closes behind you, I can feel I don't want to move. This crappy little place, I look around me, it's safe here. It smells of family. A different kind of family – you, and the kids, and safety. Something I tried to give to my own kids, but made a fucking mess of. Something else you do so much better than me. But eventually, I man up, take my jacket from the bedroom, make myself leave, and walk back to the village. I stand outside my own door, my hands fumbling for the key, just wanting this over with. I check there's no one there. He's probably off somewhere, with Cheryl, showing the world what a stand-up guy he is. The back of my neck sweats at the thought that he'll be back before I can get out. Like so many times when I was a kid. But this won't take long. I walk to my room. There's a bag on the floor with some things in, things I've not unpacked since Dublin. I pick it up. And it's done. I'm out of there, running down the steps and away towards your estate again, unseen.

When I get to you, though, you're already back. I let myself in, but the kids are in front of the TV, on the floor, the way they do. Straight off, I feel like an intruder. You're cooking up something in the kitchen, moving around, preoccupied, not totally mine right now. But not too preoccupied to look up, curious, when I come in. I hold up the bag, to show where I've been, and you give a bit of a smile, and nod. But you look genuinely pleased. I always know when you are. Your ears blush pink.

"Look kids," you say, so they turn around for a second, "it's Brendan. You remember Daddy's friend, Brendan, don't yer?" The little boy, Lucas, who looks just like you, doesn't give me a second glance, and goes straight back to the TV. But Leah gives me a long hard look. Her Mum, every inch of her. Then she goes back to the TV as well. I guess this is how it'll be now. Always someone between you and me. But you're pulling a face at me.

"They're always cranky till they've got some fish fingers inside them," you say, and while they're not looking, you lean up for another kiss. Like you always are, easy, like nothing's a problem.

"I know the feeling," I say. And that makes you laugh. The sound of it wipes so much away.

"I'm not givin' you fish fingers, Brendan," you say. "We'll get a takeaway later."

"Maybe I like fish fingers," I say to you, sneaking an arm around your waist, bringing my lips close to the back of your neck. Because your closeness reminds me of what I'm fighting to keep hold of here.

"I'll remember that," you say, laughing again. "Now will yer go an' unpack or something? Cos who's distracting who, now?"

So I let you go. And I have to sit and watch as you show me what it means to be a good Dad to your kids, and it doesn't mean making them sit up at the table, while they try to chew food down, while you humiliate them, tell them they're not worthy of it, making everything taste bitter, turn to sawdust in their mouths. It means them eating on the floor, where they were, but knowing they're loved, because you care for them without even having to try.

I don't feel part of it. I've gone to the bedroom, shed the suit, changed, changed back into the me that's comfortable here with you, but I still don't feel part of it. It happens around me, you shifting them from tea to the bedroom, after which they're running round in those little pyjamas and dressing gowns, and I wish I could help as you herd them into the bathroom to flannel their mucky little faces and brush their teeth, but they're casting me these shy looks, like I'm the beast in the corner, and this is your thing.

"Won't be long," you say to me, a bit apologetic, flashing a grin, knackered, as you herd them back into the bedroom. "Here, choose us something, will yer?" You pass a menu for Chinese to me from the side. "And get us some of those pork balls," you say. "And sweet and sour sauce."

"Hungry, are ye?" I ask you.

"I'm always hungry," you say, smiling, breathless. And I remember this is one of the things I always loved about you. You seem to eat up life.

But then you disappear again, and I'm back on the outside. I can hear them demanding stories, fairy tales about dangerous wolves and heroes and love and redemption and all that stuff you get fed as a little kid, and you're playing along, but you're firm.

"Just one, right," you say, "cos Daddy's having tea with Brendan tonight, in't he? And Daddy's starving. And you don't want Daddy to starve, do yer?"

"Yes," I hear Leah say, but she's giving that little giggle kids do.

"Yer cheeky minx!" you're saying back, and then there's some tickling and squealing, some of it from you. And then you settle down to read them a story. Red Riding Hood, by the sounds of it, with all the scary voices. But just like that, you made me part of it. I don't know how you make this all so easy. I wish I understood it.

I phone for the food, and by the time they get here, you're creeping out of the bedroom, turning down lights, leaving the door ajar.

"I'm all yours," you say, almost a whisper.

"I hope so, Steven," I say.

Then your eyes light on the food. "Oh, that's brill that, I'm dying here."

And then I have to watch as you sit down beside me and start to eat pork balls, straight from the carton, with your fingers, licking them after.

I love watching you eat. It's not pretty, but it's sort of … incredible. You dip and hold things up to drop them into your mouth, and chew loudly, making happy, satisfied noises. But I'm not hungry. I try to fork some in, but it feels like ash in my mouth. Everything you can taste, I just can't. All I can feel, if I'm honest, is my hand hurting like hell. I try not to move the fingers, so I can just let it burn, a reminder of today. Eventually, when your stomach's something like full, you start to notice. You put the carton down.

"Not hungry?" you ask me, your voice softer straight off.

I shake my head. "No appetite," I say.

"That's not like you," you say, gazing at me.

"Isn't it?" I say. Because there's been plenty of times I never wanted to eat. It's just you weren't there then. There's a lot you don't know.

"No," you say. "Is your hand still hurting?" You reach across and pick it up, in yours, gentle.

"Not really," I say. Because the pain of that is hardly what matters. But you don't let it pass. You're looking right at my face.

"Don't lie to me, Brendan," you say. And I turn my head to look you right in the eye. There's a pause, where I know you're reading me, breaking me down.

"OK," I say. "It hurts. Happy now?"

"I'm happy when you're happy," you say. "Not when you're hurting." God, you know just how to get to me. I pull my hand back, and nurse it.

And that's when you stand up, and look down at me.

"Tell yer what," you say, sounding determined, "I'll run yer a bath."

"I don't need a bath, Steven" I say. Even though I don't know what I need. Nothing. Nothing can fix this. Maybe not even you.

But nothing's going to stop you trying. As soon as the word OK is out of my mouth, you're in the bathroom, scooping rubber ducks and boats out of the bottom of the bath onto the floor, and opening the taps full, squirting in some of that bubbly stuff you like while the steam starts to rise. I've followed you in. But I just stand and watch, helpless.

"Steven …" I start, wondering if it's not too late just to suggest starting on the whiskey and heading off for an early night with you and the bottle to help me forget. But I don't get very far.

"Get your kit off, then," you say, turning your head while you mix the water with your hand, vigorous, splashing and building up bubbles.

I hesitate, feeling strange. That I'm not dictating this, I guess. You smile and pout.

"Nothing I've not seen before, is there?"

I roll my eyes and go with it, pulling my top over my head while you smirk and go back to mixing.

By the time my clothes have hit the floor, slowly, one item after another, you've closed off the taps, and you turn round, survey me. I won't deny the way you're looking at me is making me feel more interested in life. But you seem like a man on a mission.

"Get in then," you say. "I just need to get sommat."

And you walk out, leaving me standing there, naked. So there's not much I can do but get in, lower myself into the water. I hold my hand out of it, because something tells me this is gonna sting like hell. Then you're back. In the door, you stop, listening out for noises from the kids, but there's nothing. You close the door quietly, and then slide the bolt, shutting us in.

"Here you go," you say, putting two cans of beer down on the side. And immediately start stripping off your clothes. You really are all class.

"You're coming in?" I ask you.

"Course," you say, your T shirt hitting the floor revealing your chest, and pushing your jeans and boxers down over your perfect round narrow arse and kicking them off, your trainers going to all corners. "You didn't think that was just for you, did you?"

And before I know what's happening, you're getting in between my legs, while I get an eyeful of your cock, swinging, then turning round, sitting down while the water sloshes, and leaning back on my chest, careful.

"All right?" you say, turning your head back up towards me.

Yeah, I think you could say this was all right.

"Mm," is all I can manage. The back of your butt is pressed up against my cock, anyway, wet and snug, so that's reassuring. I rest one hand on one of your thighs, but the other arm rests along the side of the bath. You notice, almost straight away.

"Come 'ere," you say, and wrap my other arm around you. Then lower my hand gently into the water. The heat and soap stings. I wince. "Made a proper mess of that, didn't yer?" you say, as you swirl warm water around it, and rub carefully. "You need to keep it clean. Don't want it getting infected."

"No," I say, as you lift it out again and look at it, intently. My knuckles are red raw, skinless. The flesh red, swollen in places. Normally, I wouldn't let anyone touch me, after going apeshit like that. But you open out the fingers, and then plant a kiss right on my wet palm. Hold your mouth there for a moment, and then let go.

"That better?" you say. I can see the flicker of your lashes as you turn to feel my response. I know how much you want me to be happy. Us. For us to be happy. And strangely, it works. You make me feel like it's possible.

"Much better," I say, and I know it satisfies you, because you rest back down again, your head against my shoulder.

For a while we just lie there, taking the occasional sip from the beer cans. Your knees rise and fall in the suds. Your cock floats. I can see it, through the bubbles, in the mat of wet dark hair. I know you're thinking, and I wonder what you'll ask me next. Like always, you're the first to speak.

"Funny to think we were in Dublin yesterday, innit?" you say. You sound a bit wistful. For a moment, my stomach contracts at the memory of finding you on a bridge, making love to you in a hotel room, your face when you drank your first Guinness, you laughing when you were walking down the street ahead of me, so excited and talking so much that I had to take your arm to stop you walking right in front of the fecking Luas. The way you made me laugh, on that pier. The way you set me free, in that pub, breaking its hold on me, lying down with me on that floor, taking everything I could give you and giving it right back. It's only yesterday, but I already feel it's at a distance. I stroke your damp hair with one hand, plant a kiss on the back of your head, feel you laugh a bit.

"Yeah. Did you like it?"

"I loved it, yeah. I've never been anywhere, me."

"We'll go back there, one day soon," I say to you, my mouth in the side of your hair, now.

"Will we?"

"Yeah," I tell you. "You can't do Dublin in a day, Steven."

You turn your head back again.

"What, like a dirty weekend then?" I can see you're smiling.

I run my hand along your thigh. Press my lips into the damp skin behind one of your ears. "The dirtier the better."

"Sounds good," you say, your voice throaty. An invitation.

I slide my good hand up your thigh to your groin, and then down to your balls, and take hold of them. I feel your back arch a bit against my chest, your heartbeat quickening, the pulse behind your ear throbbing. I rub the base of your cock with one thumb, and feel it start to flower and harden in the warm water, while your breathing shortens. You bite your lip and let out the beginnings of a moan.

Then you surprise me. Your hand comes down to mine, and closes round it, stopping me. I let you go, and feel you slide your fingers between mine, and then clasp. For half a minute, you just sit like that, holding onto my hand. I don't do this, holding hands. But the fact that it's under the water, half hidden, almost weightless, makes it easier, I guess. Then you're up on your haunches, the water sloshing again, and turning to face me, foam running off your thighs and into your groin, your cock half standing up out of it. You stay crouched half in, half out of the water, looking at me.

"I just want it to be good, yer know," you say.

You catch me unawares.

"I know," I say. "It … it is good."

"Is it?" You're looking at me, searching. "What, good like yesterday was?"

So it hurts you, as well, that something's come between us and what we had over there. I hate it, that you feel like that. I put my hands on your hips and draw you towards me, so you're kneeling, one leg either side of mine.

"Steven …"

But you stop me, again. "I know this is hard for you," you say, down into my face, serious, "but we've waited a long time for this."

"I know …"

You sit back, so you're resting on my legs, straddled. You look at me, eye to eye now. Your hands rest on my shoulders. They squeeze the muscles.

"I just want us to have a few good days, Brendan. Like before."

"Good days?" Your mouth seems very close, now. Full, down-turned.

"Yeah. Just a couple, you know. No trouble. You can stay here with me if you like, and we'll have a couple of good days." Your arms are sliding round my neck now. And I think maybe you need this as much as I do. And I know, given the choice, I'd never leave this flat. This would be it.

"Oh," I say. "That's it, is it?" I run a thumb along your wet collar bone, from shoulder to throat, and watch you swallow. You nod at me. Something a bit like a smile appears round the edges of that mouth. Part serious, part tease, the way only you know. Both my arms go round your waist now, pulling you closer. "Let's see how this goes, then. But I think I can manage a couple of good days."

"Good," you say, with that soft look like your face is lighting up, like you got everything you wanted for Christmas, and god knows why, but I'm it. And I get a kiss for that, your mouth wet and your cupid's bow damp with steam and sweat, and your tongue soft. My cock stirs and hardens, and I know in a minute, I'm going to take you, right here in this bath, and we don't need to be back in Dublin, because we've still got it all here, and in your bed, where I've not had you for so damn long it makes me ache.

But right now, your arms slide closer round my neck and shoulders, and you lean in, pressing your chest against mine, and you just hold onto me. And when you do that, there's no need to worry about what's out there, waiting for us, or what's behind us, in the shadows, or what's in front, unknown. I don't know how long I'll have you, but I just want to let go of the weight and let those good days come. Because there are games I wish I hadn't played. Roads I wish I hadn't walked down. But I don't regret the one that brought me here. Just now, in this place, washed clean with you, sweet and filthy, head and heart and hand and cock, I'm as near as fuck to happy as I can be.


End file.
